


Unreal City

by Lisztful



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Brief mention of offscreen character death (not Derek or Stiles), Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, apocalyptic grimness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisztful/pseuds/Lisztful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, some apocalypses are bigger than Beacon Hills.  </p><p>A Teen Wolf/Walking Dead Fusion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unreal City

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Some violence (far less than one might expect from an episode of the Walking Dead), brief mention of major character death (not Stiles or Derek). I wrote this without even really realizing I wanted to write it, because I just have so many feelings about Walking Dead and aaaah. 
> 
> Also Unreal City is from "The Wasteland," because I'm suuuuper pretentious.

Stiles had always thought, somewhat vaguely, that he might travel cross-country after high-school. He’d never figured out the specifics. Maybe he’d go to college on the east coast, and he and his dad would pack up the jeep and go, stopping at all the cheesy attractions that Stiles would Google on his phone, leaving a trail of poorly framed cell-phone photos and happy memories in their wake. Maybe he and Scott would take off for a few weeks, drive up and down the coast finding little hole in the wall places that wouldn’t card them and escaping the horror of Beacon Hills for just long enough to remember what it felt like to be young and carefree. 

Instead, here he was with Derek. It was kind of like a road-trip, except they’d had to abandon Derek’s Camaro a few months back, and most of their few remaining possessions along with it. There wasn’t a lot left to hold onto, but Stiles had wept for the last time that night, huddled in the back of a trashed McDonalds full of rancid food, remembering that his only pictures of his Dad were gone. Derek hadn’t said anything, hadn’t tried to comfort him, but he’d sat close that whole night, his shoulder pressed tight against Stiles’ against the door of the walk-in freezer. Stiles didn’t know what Derek had lost, besides the car itself. It didn’t matter anymore.

The next morning Derek had cleared a used car lot for long enough for Stiles to find them a new ride, something boring but gas efficient. They’d wasted a lot of time and gas circling Beacon Hills back at the beginning, trying to find anyone else who had made it. Those weren’t times that Stiles liked to think about.

“You want me to take a turn?” Stiles asked, glancing over at Derek. Stiles was sprawled out in the passenger seat flicking slowly through station after station of radio static, the tattered hem of his t-shirt riding up. 

Derek returned his gaze, quiet for a moment. His eyes seemed to catch on the too-prominent line of Stiles’ ribs. Stiles pulled his shirt down. There was nothing they could do about it. 

“I’m good,” Derek said finally. “But we need to stop, soon. We should look for shelter.”

Stiles nodded back at him, drumming his fingers restlessly over the glove compartment. They raided pharmacies whenever they could find them, but there wasn’t a lot of Adderall to be had. It was kind of funny, how stupid, mundane things like that didn’t go away, just because there was an apocalypse. Or maybe that wasn’t funny at all, but Stiles took his humor where he could get it, these days. 

Derek pulled over about half an hour later. The house looked abandoned but not ransacked, which was a good sign. It had probably once been cheery, bright flowers flanking the stone walkway that trailed up to a sturdy farmhouse. Now, the weeds had overgrown it, and the house looked dingy against all that tangle of wild. 

Stiles prodded the doorway with his baseball bat. “Not broken into,” he murmured. Derek was pressed close enough that Stiles could feel his nod of affirmation. Stiles tried the door. Not locked. 

Inside, they quickly searched the ground floor, Stiles noting that there were canned goods in the kitchen and painkillers in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Derek led the way up the stairs, his tread light.

The first bedroom was empty, shredded curtains twirling in the evening breeze let in by a shattered open window. The second contained a pretty impressive comic book collection, a map of the solar system, and a shelf of battered science-fiction novels. It also contained a walker, a teenager in a star trek t-shirt, a mangled flannel shirt still half-buttoned over top. Derek drew his knife and killed it, quick and efficient like they usually were, these days. Stiles thought briefly that he could have been friends with this kid, once. He left the room after that. 

They made camp in the master bedroom, after confirming that the rest of the house was empty. Usually they took turns sleeping, but the doors were sturdy and walker activity in the area had been fairly low. They’d had a pretty good supply of canned food to choose from, cold soup and vegetables and even some fruit cocktail for dessert. There wasn’t any water, but they shared the syrup out of the bottom of the can, and that was almost like it. It was getting harder to remember when their last full meal had been, so Stiles decided to enjoy it and give up on worrying, at least for the night. 

After their meal, Stiles shook out the blankets on the still neatly-made bed and climbed in. Derek took one last glance around the room and then made his way downstairs, returning a moment later with a wooden chair from the kitchen. He used it to block the bedroom door, turning the lock for good measure. It wouldn't keep the walkers out for too long, but it would buy them enough time to arm themselves. It would have to do. 

Stiles lifted a corner of the blankets, and Derek slid wearily into bed beside him. The house was chilly, now that night had fallen. They’d headed east initially, and it seemed logical to dip into the Southeast when the weather started to cool. Stiles had always thought Georgia sounded hot and hearty, a place where things like juicy peaches were in abundance and the weather was always sticky and warm. The realization that it was still going to get cold was an unpleasant one. 

However they’d been sharing a sleeping space long before that. It had happened some time after Stiles had had to shoot Scott, after Derek dragged Stiles out of his bedroom window and tossed him into his car, after he told him that there was nobody left, nobody except them. Stiles wasn’t entirely sure when he had first grabbed Derek’s arm and dragged him down beside him on a filthy sleeping bag, when he had realized that having Derek in such close proximity made it easier to breathe. Those were the times he didn’t think about. 

He didn’t think much about anything, anymore. It was just a fact of their lives now, that they took comfort in shared space. It was no more relevant than that Stiles bashed walkers’ heads in with his baseball bat, and that Derek stabbed them in the eyes with a knife because they’d seen Scott as a walker, and Isaac, so being a werewolf didn’t mean that Derek was immune. They took what small comforts they could, when they could. 

Stiles woke up early the next morning, the air crisp and cool through the shattered window. Derek was wrapped tightly around him, still asleep. His brow was furrowed, his lips slightly parted. He looked like he was trying to solve some sort of complex, mathematical puzzle. Stiles let him be. It wasn’t often Derek got a good night’s sleep, and as peaceful as the house felt right now, they’d learned the hard way that everything got overrun eventually. They had to keep moving, but Stiles was willing to let both of them keep this, for at least a few more minutes.

Derek stirred a few minutes later, fingers tightening around Stiles’ arm until he was awake enough to confirm that Stiles was still there, still alive. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t pull away.

“Morning,” Derek murmured. His voice came out low and scratchy, a fitting counterpart to the rasp of his stubbled jaw against Stiles’ shoulder. They’d found razors at the last house they’d ransacked, but it had been a few days. 

“Hey,” Stiles replied, sparing a moment to enjoy the way Derek looked up close, when he was able to relax just fractionally, stop worrying about their next move for even a moment. “Think I saw some instant coffee downstairs,” Stiles added. “Could still be good.” Before the apocalypse, Derek had liked his coffee with lots of milk and sugar. Stiles had used to laugh about it, big bad Derek and his cappuccino. He knew it was one of those stupid, pointless things that Derek used to miss, back when they still wasted time missing things. Stiles didn’t drink it, himself, but he understood what it was to want for something simple like that. 

Derek grunted. “No hot water,” he pointed out. Stiles shrugged. “Take it anyway,” he said. “Maybe we’ll find somewhere to heat it up. You’ll be sorry later if you don’t take it.”

Derek huffed in some semblance of amusement, sitting up. His hair was askew, flat on one side and fluffy on the other. “Breakfast?”

“Sounds good,” Stiles said, pushing the covers back. “And we should see if we can find some heavier clothing, maybe take these blankets.”

“After breakfast,” Derek said, and Stiles couldn’t help smiling at him for that. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “After breakfast.”

“Maybe we could heat up some water over a fire,” Derek said, turning back toward Stiles as he removed the chair that he’d wedged under the doorknob. “For coff—“ 

Something hit the door with a forceful thud, knocking it open. Derek’s eyes were wide as he swung back, reeling from the surprise impact. It was only supernatural reflexes that allowed him to duck the scrabbling arms of the first walker.

“ _Fuck_ ” Stiles gasped, diving for Derek’s knife. He slapped it into Derek’s outstretched hand and lunged for his bat, dodging a splatter of blood and brain matter as he swung at another walker. There weren’t many of them yet, but obviously the house wasn’t secure. Now that there was a commotion, more would be here soon. 

“We have to move,” Stiles gasped out, taking another hard swing. He heard something crunch unpleasantly, made himself look to be sure he’d hit brain. Derek’s boot came down hard on a fallen walker’s skull. He must have slept in his shoes. 

“Come on,” Derek said, grabbing him by the neck of his shirt and dragging him along. Stiles clutched at him, yelping when he missed a stair and fell on his ankle hard, with a sickening crunch. Derek dragged him back up, wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Stiles realized suddenly that he was still barefoot, and had to squelch a sudden, hysterical giggle that tried to bubble up from deep in his throat. 

“Keys, you have keys?” he asked. 

Derek nodded, and glanced around him before thrusting open the back door. The walkers were everywhere, milling around the overgrown front lawn. Too many to take out. 

“Run,” Stiles told Derek, forcing himself to equalize his weight onto his injured ankle. He gritted his teeth against the pain, trying not to let it show. “We have to, come on.”

Derek nodded, short and sharp, but instead of releasing Stiles, Derek half lifted him against his side, dragging Stiles along with him. It was the sort of thing that Stiles would have found both annoying and intensely arousing, in most circumstances. At the moment, though, he couldn’t think about anything except getting to the car. 

Derek shoved him into the passenger seat and dove around the front of the car, taking out a walker with a neat kick and fumbling the keys into the ignition before he was even completely in the driver’s seat. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed and waited for the engine to rev, saying a silent prayer, like always, that the car would start, that they would make it out of here, that they would find something, anything. Derek put the car in drive and knocked a few walkers out of the way, peeling back out onto the road. 

A few minutes later, he loosened his death grip on the gearshift and reached to wrap his fingers around Stiles wrist, like he needed to feel Stiles’ pulse still beating. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re good, you’re not bit?”

“I’m okay,” Stiles said, his voice coming out rough, a little strained. “I’m good, you?”

“I’m good,” Derek echoed. Stiles saw the tension of his shoulders ease fractionally. “How’s your ankle?”

“I’ll live,” Stiles said, although in truth, it was already swelling up all bruised and angry looking, hot to the touch. He didn’t know what he was going to do if they had to run again; when they had to run again. He didn’t know how to tell Derek that they were even more fucked and it was his fault. “Sucks about the food.”

“We’ll find more food,” Derek said, although he didn’t sound very confident about it. “Sorry about your shoes.”

“We’ll find more shoes,” Stiles said tiredly, and they didn’t talk much after that. 

The car gave out a week later. They had no gas and no warm clothes. There was no water left, and their only food was a can of sliced peaches, which Stiles had insisted be left until they really needed it. Stiles still had his bat, but it was useless. His ankle wasn’t getting better. They hadn’t talked about it much, but Stiles knew that it had to be fractured. He couldn’t run anymore. He certainly couldn’t put enough weight on it to swing his bat. It wasn’t going to get better. The car had sputtered to a halt by a big, open field, and that seemed as good a place to die as any. Suddenly that seemed like the best of all possible plans.

“We’ll make a shelter,” Derek was saying, looking around for something, anything useful. “Maybe we can make a little fire, find some berries or plants or something. I can shift and catch some rabbits.”

“There’s no time,” Stiles said, glancing up at the pink sunset. It looked remarkably peaceful. “Just, can we go for a walk? Can you help me?”

Derek looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable. “Okay,” he said, and then again, like it was decided. “Okay, we’ll walk.”

The tall grass felt soft, almost ticklish against Stiles’ side as they hobbled through it, Stiles leaning up against Derek’s side. Derek felt warm, and solid, and alive, his muscles shifting against Stiles’ side with every step. There was a big, tall tree at the far end of the field. Golden-red leaves blanketed the field all around it, but it still looked magnificent, adorned in fall colors. Without saying anything, they headed for that.

The leaves felt nice under Stiles’ bare toes. Even if they’d been able to find him shoes, he wouldn’t have been able to get one over his swollen foot, so he’d gone without. He had hardly noticed how much his feet ached until he felt the soft, slippery leaves underfoot, still warm from the fading heat of the afternoon. Derek helped Stiles sit down under the tree and then joined him, putting an arm around Stiles’ neck and drawing him close. Stiles was so tired of running. He was so tired of being hungry and cold, of hurting, of not remembering how to feel except this dogged, unrelenting dread that gripped him constantly. He wished, idly, that he’d had the courage to kiss Derek, back before things had gotten too bad to leave any time or energy or room for that. He thought maybe they should’ve brought the peaches, but they were still in the car. He closed his eyes and tucked his nose against the side of Derek’s throat. He didn’t think any more.

Stiles dreamt of rain. It hadn’t rained all summer, but in his dream the downpour was heavy and endless. He dreamt of someone touching his hand, of reaching back to clutch at Derek and kicking, his bare feet catching on someone, something. He’d hoped that dying would be easier than living had turned out to be, but his dream of the rain went on for a long time before it finally faded into darkness.

**

Stiles woke up on something soft, which was particularly surprising because he hadn’t expected to wake up at all. He flailed for a moment, reaching out to both sides as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of morning light. His hand connected with the warm bulk of Derek’s thigh, and Stiles clutched at it, dragging himself up to a seated position. Several things became apparent. They were in a jail cell. Stiles’ ankle was bandaged. Derek was smiling at him.

“What—“ Stiles started, but then Derek was kissing him, his big hands bracketing Stiles’ face. Stiles shuddered and leaned into it, half in Derek’s lap. He didn’t know where they were. He didn’t know why they were alive. He didn’t really care, not when Derek was laughing against his mouth, kissing Stiles’ nose, his cheekbones, his chin. Derek finally pulled back, with some reluctance. He reached for a mug of water, made Stiles drink from it. His hands drifted back to close around Stiles’ waist, and Stiles drew closer. 

“Sorry,” Derek muttered gruffly. “I just—“ he trailed off.

“Don’t,” Stiles said. “It’s good. I want it.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Derek’s cheek. “But how did we get here?”

Derek’s hand drifted up over Stiles’ shoulder, fingers catching in the hair at the base of Stiles’ neck. “Someone found us,” he said quietly. “I thought it was a walker, but this woman, she had a sword. She told me there was a safe place, and she helped me get you there. You were really dehydrated; I think you were delirious by the end. They have a doctor here. He’s been treating you for a few days. Me too, but I heal faster.” He shrugged, as though it was something to be ashamed of that he’d been feeling better while Stiles was not. It was just the sort of stupid thing that Stiles had come to expect from him, even before the apocalypse. “They have a farm here,” Derek said. “There’s running water, food, mattresses. They even have books.” Derek reached up and cupped Stiles’ cheek, his calloused thumb gentle as he traced the soft skin below Stiles’ eye. 

Stiles realized abruptly that he was crying. He hadn't even been sure that he knew how to cry any more, had thought it was burned out of him along with the ability to feel anything at all. But here he was, crying, and feeling Derek breathe beside him, and suddenly they were alive again. Suddenly they had a chance.

“Do you think they have coffee here?” Stiles asked.

Derek laughed, and when Stiles looked up at him, his eyes were brighter than they’d seemed in months. “I don’t know,” he said easily, “But we can find out.” He kissed Stiles again, sweetly. “We have time.”

Stiles kissed him back, considering. He didn’t know if they would stay in this place, if it was truly safe, if it could possibly be real. He didn’t know if he could be the person that he was before the apocalypse, before everything in him became broken. All he knew was that for now, they had time. For now, it was enough.


End file.
